


The Spark and the Flame

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, M/M, Sweden - Freeform, the Yule Goat, to burn or not to burn ... that is the question
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: "Explain to me how lying in the snow in a city in Sweden on Christmas Eve to watch whether or not a massive straw goat goes up in flames is traditional."





	1. The Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Merry belated Christmas, my lovelies!
> 
> Here comes the obligatory holiday fic I recently hinted at on my tumblr, though this story is also being posted in celebration of "Dog Days" reaching 10k hits. You guys are amazing and I love you all. This is for you.
> 
> Enjoy!

John rubbed his hands together and blew on them in a feeble effort to get some semblance of warmth into his fingers. "Care to tell me why we are here?"

"You'll see," Sherlock murmured next to him, his breath leaving billowing clouds in the frigid air.

"When you suggested going on holiday over Christmas, this is not what I pictured," John complained, teeth chattering.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. "Everyone's a critic."

They were camped out behind a large heap of snow, a veritable mountain of the cold white stuff. John was absolutely certain he had never seen this much snow in his life. His family had been too poor to afford skiing holidays when he was a kid and as an adult he had been drawn - and, most notably, deported - into warmer climates.

Sweden had never been on his list of holiday destinations. And yet in Sweden he was, dressed in a dark snow- and water-proof suit on top of thermal underwear, three pairs of socks in thick snow boots, his warmest trousers, a t-shirt and no less than two jumpers and a winter jacket, scarf, gloves and hat. He was still freezing cold and starting to worry about developing frostbite.

Sherlock, dressed in a similar attire, was stretched out next to him, peering over the edge of the snow heap. He wore a white hat to camouflage his dark hair in the snow and, upon their arrival, had settled in with the clear intention to stay.

Personally, John would rather be back at their hotel, which provided such comforts as a warm bed and a large tub that featured rather prominently in his wishful thinking. But Sherlock had insisted that they come here and so here they were, on an insulating blanket in the snow, another two white blankets thrown over them for concealment as well as warmth and various thermos flasks of hot tea nestled into the warm space between them. John had insisted on bringing some sandwiches as well - if Sherlock was planning on a stake-out on Christmas Eve in a city in Sweden, then chances were that they would not be able to find any open shops if they felt peckish.

It was minus 7°C, which, as Sherlock had gleefully informed him, was a full 1.8°C below the average for this time of year. John didn't know what that had to do with anything but was too cold to question him on the matter and would in fact have preferred not to know just how cold it was.

"S-seriously, Sh-Sherlock, why are we here?" he asked. "It's Christmas Eve, we're in Sweden and we've got a lovely hotel room with its own fireplace."

The hotel room was one of those things John didn't even bother to question. It was Christmas and apparently this city had some sort of strange attraction to tourists during this time of year. They had been lucky to get any room at all. A double room was the least of their problems. After years of friendship and sharing a flat, he didn't care. He secretly rather liked it. If he was honest, he would much prefer to be there now, in fact. Alone in a room with Sherlock on Christmas Eve.

Shaking the thought off, he continued. "But instead, w-we are l-lying here in the s-snow, fr-freezing and s-staring at a... a goat."

He gestured towards the monstrosity.

The goat was twelve metres tall and made of straw. It had been erected in a large square that Sherlock and various signs proclaimed to be "Slottstorget" and that John's tourist guide had helpfully informed him was called "Castle Square".

He wasn't quite sure why the Swedes had decided to put up a 12-metre straw goat in their Castle Square for Christmas. Surely a reindeer would have been a better choice? Sherlock, however, seemed to find the entire thing fascinating, and had been muttering about chicken wire and access points.

Now, he sighed and finally deigned to answer John's question.

"It's the traditional Swedish Yule Goat. The city of Gävle has put it - and frequently even two different versions of it - up every year since 1966. In the 52 years since then, it has been vandalised and usually burned down 36 times. It has survived so far this year, but Christmas Eve is a particularly tense time. You may have noticed the security measures."

Indeed John had.

The goat was behind a two metre tall wooden fence and he had noticed various security cameras as well as no less than two patrolling guards. It was quite difficult not to notice them. He and Sherlock had approached from the far side of the heap of snow that had apparently been placed here by snow ploughs. Any available space in parks or unused parking lots had been taken over by piles and piles of snow. John supposed that was better than to leave it lying around in the streets. This amount of snow in London would have caused a complete and utter standstill of all traffic, including pedestrians.

He looked at the goat again. It truly was huge. And quite well secured.

He looked at Sherlock.

He came to a conclusion.

" _Please_ tell me we aren't going to burn down the goat."

*****

They were not, in fact, planning to burn down the goat, Sherlock assured John.

"Even better. We are going to _stop_ it from being burnt down." He beamed at him.

John looked unimpressed.

Sherlock felt his face fall. "You said you wanted a more traditional Christmas this year," he pointed out. "And I thought we could both do with a bit of a holiday away from London."

"Explain to me how lying in the snow in a city in Sweden on Christmas Eve to watch whether or not a massive straw goat goes up in flames is traditional," John said.

Sherlock frowned. Clearly John was not convinced. This had to change. Sherlock had gone to great lengths to find something, anything, that would match John's expectations of a traditional Christmas and his own of an interesting case. If John wasn't convinced of the brilliance of his plan yet, clearly Sherlock needed to list all the advantages.

"We have snow," he pointed out, deciding to start with a definite plus. "Everyone always wants a white Christmas. You can't possibly get a whiter Christmas than this, John. It's certainly more snow than London has seen in the past 50 years combined."

"Fair enough," John admitted. "That doesn't make it traditional for London, though, does it?"

 _'Ahaaaa'_ Sherlock thought. "You never specified which location your Christmas was supposed to be traditional for, so I went with the most picturesque version I could find."

John laughed. "You found a _picturesque_ version of Christmas that involves us lying in the snow with four thermos flasks of hot tea?"

"One of them has mulled wine in it," Sherlock admitted. "I swapped it when you weren't looking."

That startled another laugh out of John. Sherlock rather giddily added another tally mark to the calendar in his Mind Palace. Twice in the space of a single conversation!

He was on a roll now, more reasons pouring out. "Also, it is Christmas Eve. We traditionally celebrate Christmas on Christmas Day. Which is precisely what we are going to do. We've even got a hotel room with a fireplace, John. It'll be almost like 221b, except better insulated because the Swedes actually know how to winter-proof their homes in an energy-efficient way."

He held up his hand with four fingers raised to illustrate the arguments he had just made. "We are also in a country that is positively full of softwood forests. That's enough for millions of Christmas trees. Everyone else only gets one."

"I'm not sure that coun-" John began.

Sherlock talked right over him. "And, finally, the burning of the Yule Goat through vandals has definitely become a tradition in this city. Not only are we celebrating Christmas in one of the most Christmas-y locations on earth, we are also observing their own quaint traditions in the process."

"I doubt the Swedes would agree with you on that point," John muttered. "Somehow I don't think they're overly enthusiastic about vandals burning down their Yule Goat almost every year."

Sherlock shrugged. "Nonetheless, it has become a tradition. It has burned down more often than not. Sometimes even twice in the same year."

John thought about this.

"Fine. You win. Thank you for this very traditional Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock allowed himself a wide, honest smile. "I knew you'd see sense eventually, John. You're welcome."

*****

They passed two hours in quiet conversation about everything and nothing, interspersed with companionable silence and John forcing Sherlock to have some of the tea. Not the mulled wine; they could save that for later.

It was almost 9pm and fully dark. The only light came from the street lights, the Yule Goat's decorations and the frankly ridiculous white spotlights illuminating the fence surrounding it.

Hardly any of the light made it all the way to their hiding place. None of the guards had considered patrolling here, either. Sherlock merely grumbled something about incompetence, as though his crazy plan didn't hinge on them staying undetected until it was time to catch the vandals in the act.

John had merely smiled fondly, too preoccupied with Sherlock's reasons for coming here.

He hadn't said it but it was obvious that it was mostly for John's sake, something to distract him - and perhaps Sherlock, too - from all the mess they had left behind.

His divorce had been finalised only last month, Mary and the child that wasn't his shipped off to parts unknown by Mycroft with an assurance that he would not see either of them again. He wasn't sorry. Too much had happened, too much had been irrevocably destroyed by Mary's words and deeds.

But the anger and the helpless fury still lingered, as did the seemingly ever-present fear of someone bursting in, ready to snatch away all the good things in his life all over again.

At least this way, Sherlock was right here next to him and no one else knew where they had gone off to. They had vaguely mentioned a holiday and a case out of the country and that was that. Mrs Hudson had told them to relax and told Sherlock to look out for John as if they didn't regularly jump head-first into danger and Lestrade had merely wished them a merry Christmas and waved them away. He had given Sherlock a look, though, one that John clearly hadn't been supposed to see, and John still wasn't sure what it was Lestrade had been trying to express with it. Raised eyebrows and something half-surprised, half-anticipatory. John couldn't make sense of it.

And so here they were, just the two of them in a city in Sweden at Christmas. He had to hand it to Sherlock - he was cold and feeling amused and intrigued despite himself and he had been enjoying himself from the moment they had stepped off the plane. So perhaps this idea of a distraction was actually working.

Sherlock shifted next to him, the dim light catching in the tips of his curls just visible around the edge of his white wool hat, and John felt a sudden and entirely expected wave of fondness sweep over him.

Sherlock looked at him and John wondered if he could see it on his face.

"All right?" Sherlock asked.

John's answer was entirely honest: "Absolutely perfect."

His friend blinked, clearly thrown off-guard by this apparent U-turn since their earlier discussion of what did and didn't count as a tradition. It occurred to John that Sherlock had gone to rather a lot of trouble to find what really did seem the perfect way to spend Christmas - for them at least. In fact, Sherlock had done nothing but go to a lot of trouble for John lately, i.e. in the past four years or so.

John let that sink in to marinate along with all the other thoughts about Sherlock that had begun to resurface since his return from the not-quite-as-dead-as-assumed.

He didn't have any solid evidence to support his theory, of course, but that was to be expected. Sherlock would never be so careless.

 _'The two people who love you most in all this world'_ he had said in his best man speech. But Mary hadn't loved him all that much, in the end, and that only left one person. John couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock had meant it.

He reached for the flask of tea and found it empty.

John hesitated. They were at a crossroads. He could open one of the other flasks of tea or ... well, Sherlock had wanted a distraction, too, hadn't he?

Nodding to himself, John reached for the thermos flask Sherlock had indicated earlier and began to fill the mugs they had brought.

"Here," he said, nudging Sherlock. "The goat can wait for a minute or two."

Sherlock turned and took the mug, smiling as the scent hit him. "No tea this time?"

"Mulled wine is disgusting when it's cold," John reasoned. "Better drink it now while it still has a bit of taste and warmth."

"When you put it like that..." Sherlock murmured, clinking his mug to John's. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

The wine was still quite warm and deliciously spicy. John sighed happily. "Brilliant. Did you make it yourself?"

"Of course," Sherlock confirmed, pretending to be offended at the mere suggestion of getting store-bought mulled wine. "Who do you think I am?"

"A brilliant madman," John promptly said.

Sherlock laughed. "Fair enough."

John took another sip from his mug. God, that stuff really was good. And potent. He wondered what on earth Sherlock had spiked it with but didn't feel like asking.

"So," he said, "how long do you plan to stay here, watching that goat?"

"Only a couple of hours longer," Sherlock said. "If it hasn't burned by 3am, I doubt it will."

John shook his head, smiling. "You do realise that's another 6 hours from now, right?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Do you have somewhere better to be?"

"In our hotel room, soaking in that massive tub," John told him immediately.

"Mmmh, perhaps later," Sherlock mumbled into his mug.

He clearly hadn't meant to say it out loud and John thought he did a good job of pretending he hadn't heard, even as his pulse sped up. Surely Sherlock hadn't meant...?

The idea of the two of them sharing the hot tub unfolded in his mind, his over-eager brain filling in a lot of the details.

John suddenly found that he was quite warm after all. Must be the wine kicking in.

*****

_'Shit shit shit.'_

He had never meant to say that out loud. But John had mentioned the hot tub and Sherlock's brain had taken a swan-dive and he could only hope that John hadn't heard. It didn't seem like he had. He was sipping his wine and staring at the Yule Goat. It was hard to tell in the dark but Sherlock thought John's cheeks might be a little redder than they should be, despite the cold. Must be the wine kicking in.

He had spiked it rather generously with rum and was now trying to decide if he regretted doing so.

He couldn't quite bring himself to, seeing as John seemed to appreciate the mulled wine. It was going to go to both of their heads, Sherlock thought. He might have spiked it a bit too generously. Still, he couldn't quite be sorry.

They emptied their mugs in silence and then went back to tea.

"Never mind the temperature, if we drink this entire flask right now, we'll be too drunk to decide which goat is the right one," John had wisely concluded.

Sherlock couldn't find fault with his logic and had acquiesced. Being a little tipsy was fine. Being completely smashed might be dangerous. He still had rather vivid memories of John's stag night, the last time they had gotten truly drunk together, and even a year and a half later he still wasn't sure if regret or relief won over in regards to that night and all the things that hadn't happened. He knew he had come dangerously close to revealing entirely too much and that was enough to make him wary now.

So he sipped his tea and kept his eyes on the goat. John was reading something on his phone next to him, the light of the screen muted to avoid giving away their location.

Sherlock had to admit that it was a rather boring stakeout so far.

Next to him, John chuckled.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused.

John shook his head. "I'm reading the Wikipedia article on this goat," he said, nodding towards the straw monstrosity. "It's even more ridiculous than I thought it was going to be."

He laughed again. "At one point, it burned down during a massive blizzard!"

Sherlock grinned. "Knew you'd like that."

John was full-on giggling now. "IKEA tried to copy the goat in Iceland and it promptly burned down thanks to faulty wiring. I swear the entire universe has it out for this goat."

"Hm, fuck this goat in particular," Sherlock said.

John's head whipped around and his mouth dropped open. "Did you just swear?"

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"' _Fuck this goat in particular_ '," John quoted. "I have never heard you swear. Not once in all the years we've known each other. Not even when you stubbed your toe on the table in the sitting room."

Sherlock shrugged and forced his expression to remain impassive even as he felt his face heat. "Perhaps a situation in which me swearing is warranted simply hasn't arisen yet in your presence."

Oh, he needed to be careful. Very careful, in fact. John wasn't a complete moron, despite all of Sherlock's claims to the contrary. There was a good chance he would work out all on his own what it would take to make Sherlock swear and Sherlock didn't know what he feared most - John attempting to figure it out through a hands-on experiment or John realising it and never acting on it at all.

John merely snorted. "Duly noted."

Breathing out slowly, Sherlock forced his body to relax. John had remained oblivious for so long, it was unlikely he would suddenly see the forest rather than all the trees Sherlock had so carelessly and accidentally planted in his direct line of vision. He would not allow himself another slip.

His near departure back to Serbia had been a turning point for them both. John had concluded that staying with his lying wife was unacceptable. Sherlock had concluded that if he wanted their life to regain any semblance of what it had been before his untimely death, he would have to let go of the pain and accept that John would never be his.

It had been hard to stare the facts in the face, to acknowledge and accept them as the truth. But he had done it and they were both better off for it, although John of course had no idea. It had gotten easier as they slowly found back into their old rhythms. But moments like this, when they were outside their usual environment and John so casually painted mental pictures of himself in a hot tub .... moments like this made it difficult to hold on to the promise Sherlock had quietly made to them both.

 _'I will be content'_ he reminded himself firmly. _'This is all I'll ever get and it's far more than I deserve.'_

But he couldn't help but think about it, couldn't help but be drawn towards the idea. It was worth the pang of wistful regret he experienced every time desire overcame reason. He had taught himself to deal with this, too, to savour it and take it as confirmation that no matter what happened, he would never become indifferent to John. It was reassuring, in a way. At least he was constant.

And it was an improvement, there was no arguing about that. They now shared comfortable evenings at home and spent their nights on stake-outs and chasing criminals. They had brunch at their desks in the sitting room and shouted at the TV at night. They worked and talked and joked and rarely argued and all the tension and awkwardness that had been between them after Sherlock's return had slowly faded. He couldn't even pinpoint when precisely it had disappeared for good. Perhaps Mary's departure was related to that. John had severed all contact months ago and it had been as if a huge weight was lifted off Sherlock's chest, allowing him to breathe freely for the first time in years.

"I can barely feel my toes anymore," John muttered, shifting uneasily. "Do you really want to stay here for another six hours?"

Sherlock blinked and pulled the sleeve of his jacket back to glance at his watch. It was almost 10pm. How long had he been lost in thought?

"At least until midnight," he conceded. It really was very cold. And the potential of catching vandals in the act of burning a Straw Goat didn't hold all that much appeal next to the certainty of sleeping in the same bed as John Watson.

He could do two more hours, Sherlock decided. Draw out the anticipation a bit, make himself really look forward to the simple pleasure of having a moment that was _almost_ perfect.

And perhaps some vandals would show up to burn down this bloody goat in the meantime.

*****

John was quite certain he had never taken a stake-out less seriously than this one. A straw goat, for heaven's sake! How had Sherlock even heard about that in the first place?

He barely paid any attention to the goat itself or the movement of the guards slowly walking their beat. Most of his focus was, as always, on Sherlock himself.

Ever since moving back to 221b, John had begun to wonder if he was imagining things. Perhaps it was just the fact that it had been years since they had lived together that had made him forget that they _always_ sat this close to one another on the sofa, that Sherlock had _always_ looked at him with warm fondness in his eyes and something else that was too complicated to put into words. Perhaps it had always been like that and he had simply forgotten. Or perhaps he had simply never noticed. Maybe it was new.

But what about all the other things? Moments like earlier tonight, when Sherlock said things that, from anyone else, could be interpreted as flirting, if not downright innuendo? Had he always done that, too?

Much of the early days of Sherlock's return were a bit hazy in John's mind but _'I like my doctor's clean-shaven'_ was not a statement you simply forgot. It had brought him up short then and it still did so now, whenever he thought about it.

John thought about it a lot more often than he wanted to admit.

Perhaps he was imagining things but he would be the first to admit that he was not, in fact, a very imaginative person. Sherlock might call his writing romantic drivel but even so John had always stuck to fact over fiction. And he knew about people, damn it. Perhaps he should simply stop seeing Sherlock as someone superhuman and start seeing him as ... well, as the man he was.

John turned his head to look at his friend, who lay on their thermal blanket in the snow, eyes intent on the goat. If he was cold, he didn't show it. John allowed himself to stare openly - Sherlock did it often enough to him, after all; turnabout was fair play.

The tips of his dark curls peeked out from under his white wool hat and his cheeks and nose were red from the cold, his breath emerging in thick white clouds from his slightly parted lips.

John thought about those lips a lot more often than he wanted to admit, too.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he and Sherlock were so close to each other, it would be the work of a moment to lean in. Hardly a second to make or break them. It sent a shiver down his spine, that whisper of possibility.

 _'Perhaps later'_ Sherlock had murmured and John quite suddenly wanted 'later' to happen as soon as possible. He was done wasting time.

And then Sherlock turned his head and looked at him.

*****

Sherlock had been focused on the pattern of the security guards when he became aware of John's gaze.

They stared at one another a lot and admittedly Sherlock was doing most of the staring for all sorts of reasons - to deduce John's day, to give his eyes something to focus on while his mind was occupied elsewhere, or to simply look at John and memorize every last little detail about him.

Now, John's stare was an almost physical touch and it made Sherlock's skin tingle.

He turned his head, the standard question about having something on his face already lined up, and locked eyes with John.

The words died in his throat, along with any breath left in his lungs.

John was staring at him with something that could only be called 'intent' and it sent an almost violent shiver down his spine.

If anyone else had looked at him like that, Sherlock would have placed the odds of his getting laid at 9/1 in favour. But this was John and caution was the order of the day.

Except he didn't want to be cautious and nothing about the look on John's face suggested any caution, either. His gaze seemed to burn straight through Sherlock, an almost possessive spark in his eyes that did unspeakable things to Sherlock's equilibrium. Whatever John wanted, he'd give it to him, there was no question about it.

Sherlock didn't know what his expression showed but there was an answering flare of heat in John's eyes that turned his throat dry.

He wondered what it was that made John look at him like this, but the thought was fleeting, there and gone again. He didn't really care so long as John would just keep looking at him like Sherlock was all he had ever wanted.

"John" he finally got out and John made a noise that was truly indescribable before lunging for him.

Cold lips were pressed against his for one heartbeat, and another, and Sherlock remembered how breathing worked just in time to gasp against John's mouth.

John pulled back a little and for a moment cold dread slid down Sherlock's spine, worse than all the snow surrounding them.

"Please." The word was wrenched from him quite without his say-so but it didn't matter because a second later John was back, hands clutching at Sherlock's thick jacket to haul him closer. Sherlock opened his mouth with a moan that was half lust and half relief and kissed him back, fingers somehow finding their way to John's hips and holding on tight on the off-chance that John might want to move away, however unlikely it seemed.

John's mouth was hot and wet and _there_ and Sherlock kissed him and kissed him and kissed him. The very idea of not kissing him was incomprehensible. Years of self-denial had come to an abrupt end and while his mind struggled to adjust to what was happening, Sherlock's body had no such compunctions.

Snow crunched under him as he rolled onto his back, pulling John with him and moaning again as his friend's weight pressed him down.

John grunted, clearly taken by surprise by Sherlock's movement, but didn't make any sort of complaint. If anything, he only kissed him harder.

 _'We've finally gone mad'_ Sherlock thought in a moment of distracted clarity. _'There's no other reason why this should be happening.'_

But the thought hardly registered because John was kissing him and even the Swedish night sky seemed brighter for it. He thought he could hear the air crackling.

It took at least another half minute before Sherlock realised that he really could hear a crackling noise. This was facilitated by John breaking the kiss to pant against Sherlock's scarf-covered neck. "God."

Sherlock hummed, staring dazedly upwards. Clouds of steam seemed to rise from the two of them.

No, that was his mind playing tricks on them. The crackling noise was still audible and he could see the steam - no, he realised. The smoke.

He sat up, almost headbutting John in the face and accidentally shoving him off his own body.

"Oi, what-" John began and then broke off when he saw what had caught Sherlock's attention.

The Yule Goat was on fire.


	2. The Flame

John licked his lips and stared at the goat, uncomprehending. "What-"

"They must have snuck up on it while we were ... distracted," Sherlock said. His breathing hadn't yet returned to normal and he had to clear his throat twice before speaking. John found this very gratifying.

He followed Sherlock's line of sight and noticed two dark figures rushing away into the night, unseen by the security guards, who were yelling and cursing and watching the Yule Goat burn. One of them had gotten his hands on a fire extinguisher and was attempting to use it on the goat. It was rather like trying to stop a forest fire with a bucket of water.

"Should we-" he began.

Sherlock shook his head. "Let's not draw attention to ourselves. They likely haven't heard of us and wouldn't believe our story. We can argue the lack of footprints leading from us to the goat but on one previous occasion it was burned down by people firing flaming arrows at it, so I'd recommend not to chance it."

John smiled. "So you're saying we should ... lie low for a bit?"

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the burning goat and stared at him, keen eyes flicking over John's face and no doubt deducing all sorts of things there.

John decided not to leave anything up to chance. "Sounds like a brilliant idea to me. Amazing, one might say."

A slow, tentative smile curled around the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "Mmh, it is rather cold out here. And I believe you did say something about a hot tub."

"I did, didn't I?" John wondered if Sherlock could hear his heart beating its way out of his chest. "As a medical man, I have to say that a hot tub would be a fantastic way to prevent frostbite and hypothermia." He paused for a deliberate three seconds. "And it's quite a big tub, which is handy because we really shouldn't have one of us waiting for too long while the other is having a bath."

He frowned and looked back in the direction of the goat. A fire engine was pulling up to the scene. "Are you ... are you sure you don't want to try and catch them?"

Sherlock nodded. "Very. It'll be impossible. All they have to do is follow the streets. There are too many tracks in the snow there for anyone to distinguish theirs from the rest, if there's any snow at all, and they can just turn a corner and become upstanding citizens again. Let's get away from here while everyone is distracted."

Kneeling behind their heap of snow to shield them from view, they gathered up their thermos flasks and blankets.

"I prefer our way of being distracted," John said seriously. "Much better than a fire."

That earned him another smile but Sherlock remained silent as they finished folding the blankets and, with one last glance at the burning goat and the bustle of activity around it, disappeared into the night.

*****

It was a short, brisk walk back to their hotel. Now that they were moving again, John found time to really appreciate just how cold he had been as the blood rushed back into his feet and his toes smarted as he walked. From the look on Sherlock's face, he was experiencing something similar.

They slowed down once they got into the more populated areas where people were just returning home after evening mass. No one spared them a second glance as they casually melted into the crowd, ambling along like just another pair of churchgoers. John couldn't deny that worship was definitely on his mind, though not in any way the Church would have approved of.

Just walking was already doing a great deal to warm them up, getting their circulation started properly again and loosening stiff muscles.

Everywhere John looked, he was met with the warm, golden glow of Christmas decorations. There were hardly any of the tacky, multi-coloured, flashing and/or glaring lights he was used to seeing in London. People had even decorated the trees in their front gardens in a festive manner.

"It's beautiful here," John commented as they turned into the street leading to their hotel. "All that snow and the lights ... you were right, this is a brilliant place to go to for Christmas."

Sherlock hummed and smiled at him. "I'm glad you agree. Took you long enough."

John grinned back, thinking to himself that Sherlock had smiled more tonight than he had in the past month together. "You can't blame me for being suspicious. Christmas has never been very high on your list of priorities."

His friend shrugged. "Christmas hasn't. You have." He hesitated, and then added softly: "You still are."

Something warm seemed to slide down John's throat and settle in his chest, a gentle glow. It would have been lovely if it hadn't tasted so sad with the taint of all that Sherlock very carefully hadn't said.

"One day," John said quietly, "I will have made it up to you. If you'll let me. I need you to know that you are my priority, too, even though I've been right shitty at showing it."

Sherlock said nothing, so John took a breath and continued. "But no more. You ... we ... have gone through enough, suffered enough."

He reached out and grasped Sherlock's gloved hand in his, pulling him to a stop and turning so they stood facing each other. "No more, Sherlock."

Sherlock was biting his lip and he was blinking rapidly in what John had privately determined meant a reboot was happening somewhere in that big brain of his. That clever gaze skidded across his face, hunting for clues, and John was happy to let him see.

Finally, Sherlock relaxed and his fingers curled around John's hand. "No more."

There was something like awe and hope in his voice and it made the glow in John's chest increase a little. Some of the sadness faded.

Perhaps they could have their very own Christmas miracle tonight. After all, it had been years in the making.

*****

Sherlock hadn't felt so lost in a long time. Every couple of steps, he turned his head and looked down at their joined hands, trying to comprehend the hows and whys of their entanglement.

He had never cared about the goat one way or another. He had only meant to provide John with a distraction for Christmas, something to get him out of London and take his mind off his divorce and all that led up to it.

But instead of merely going along with him, John had apparently decided to shake up the very foundation of their friendship. After years and years of hopeless waiting, when he had finally managed to accept that nothing was ever going to happen, John had decided to make a move.

There was no question to it: it had been John's decision from start to finish. He had been the one to take the initiative. Sherlock wondered if it would happen again. Sure, they had talked about the hot tub in their hotel room and that was ... he couldn't even compute what that was.

But John had also said 'no more' and Sherlock's inherent pessimism wouldn't allow him to believe that it really meant what he hoped it meant. No more what? No more denying that this was something John wanted? For how long? Just this once? Just for the duration of their stay?

It would kill him, Sherlock thought. What Moriarty himself, his entire network and Mary Morstan had failed at could without a doubt be achieved by John Watson going out on a lark. And, Sherlock thought miserably, the worst thing was that he still wouldn't say no if John asked.

He knew it wasn't very healthy and Mycroft would raise an eyebrow at him and give him a disappointed look of the sort he reserved exclusively to express his thoughts on those pesky little brothers who simply would not listen to their elders and betters and allowed themselves to get bogged down by sentiment. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of this particular look altogether too often in the past five years.

And yet he couldn't stop himself. He didn't even want to.

But the longer John held his hand, the more certain Sherlock got that he really meant it.

Before he knew it, they were outside their hotel and John was fishing the keys out of his jacket pocket and then they were inside.

The air was warm and golden, smelling of pine and oranges and dianthus. Faint classical Christmas music played in the small foyer. They only lingered long enough for the lady behind the receptionist's desk to greet them and wish them a merry Christmas before John led him up the stairs and along the hallway to their room.

It was warm in there, too, and they gratefully shed their thick winter jackets and snow suits. John took a minute to spread out their snow-wet blankets in front of the (artificial, for reasons of health and safety) fireplace. It did its job of heating the room rather too well and Sherlock could see drops of sweat forming on John's forehead. He wanted to reach out and wipe them away. Perhaps sensing his gaze, John turned towards him, tilting his head in question.

Sherlock thought he must be a ridiculous sight - they both wore two pairs of longjohns, trousers, thick socks and warm jumpers underneath the snow suits. If John thought he looked silly, he didn't show it, though. Instead, John looked at him as if Sherlock was the most desirable thing he had ever seen. It sent a warm shiver down his spine.

"You all right?" John asked, stepping closer.

Sherlock blinked. "Yes."

"Only you look a bit ..." John hesitated, waving his hand vaguely. "... distressed."

He tried to pull himself together. "I... I'm fine. Just..." He shook his head, wishing he had stopped after claiming he was fine. He didn't know how to finish the sentence that had tried to add itself to his response.

"Just what?"

"I've got cold toes," Sherlock volunteered. "How serious were you about that bath?"

John smiled, stepped forward and kissed him again.

Sherlock moaned and sagged a little, gratefully falling into him.

"Very serious," John murmured against his mouth. "Unless you've changed your mind...?"

There was something hesitant in his tone, worried. Sherlock didn't like it. He shook his head. Being in a bathtub with John sounded like something straight out of his most fevered dreams.

John's smile widened and he stepped back a little, letting his hand trail down Sherlock's arm as he went. "I'll turn on the tabs, then."

Sherlock watched him pull his jumper and vest over his head as he went, utterly unashamed. Of course he would be - any shyness his medical training hadn't eradicated would have been taken care of by his time in the military. That was as far as Sherlock's brain got him before his thought process was overwhelmed by the sight of John Watson's broad, muscular shoulders.

He wanted to follow him and touch them, trace each muscle with his fingers and tongue, taste the soft skin between his shoulder blades and in the dip of his spine.

There was the sound of tabs sputtering to life and water hitting the bottom of the tub.

"Any particular wishes for the bath oil?" John called. "We've got a ton of scents to choose from."

"No mint," Sherlock called back. "I don't care beyond that."

"Gotcha."

Half a minute later, the scent of roast apple and cinnamon filled the air and Sherlock found himself breathing in deeply and relaxing. Crazy, the things you could put in your bath these days. Christmas-themed bath oils were barely scratching the surface of it. Apparently he was about to enjoy a bath containing one John Watson. It was mind-boggling.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock stripped off his own jumper and vest and began to peel off the longjohns. He still had on pants underneath them - you really couldn't be too careful in these temperatures.

"This okay?" John asked as Sherlock ambled into the bathroom.

"Perfect," Sherlock assured him. "We'll have to force ourselves not to drink the water straight out of the tub."

John laughed and turned to look at him. The laugh died in his throat and Sherlock watched with no little gratification as John's gaze wandered across his naked chest.

John swallowed. "God, you're gorgeous."

There was no helping it - Sherlock blushed. "Allow me to return the compliment."

It was an understatement. He was absolutely certain that he had never seen anything as beautiful as John.

After leaving Mary and moving back into 221b, John had started to hit the gym, citing his need to be able to keep up with Sherlock and the various criminals they ended up chasing. Sherlock had seen it as a good sign, a promise of working together the way they used to do. It certainly hadn't escaped his notice that John had gotten rather fit in recent months; he had definitely noticed the way his shirts and trousers fit differently and how his strength and endurance had increased. It hadn't been enough to sufficiently prepare him for the sight of it.

"Sherlock?"

He did a quick double-blink, realising he had been standing in the bathroom, staring at John, for rather longer than politeness allowed. "Sorry."

"Are you?" John asked, grinning and crossing his arms in front of his chest, his biceps bulging.

Sherlock slowly dragged his gaze back up to John's face and swallowed. "Not really."

John's grin widened. "Good."

*****

There were few things more flattering than having Sherlock Holmes stare at you with unabashed desire and John couldn't recall any of them.

Behind him, the tub was rapidly filling with warm water. He had made sure it wouldn't run too hot to avoid them passing out from the difference in temperature but it would be quite sufficient to warm them up, particularly with the planned cardiovascular exercise they were so carefully not talking about.

Around them, the air filled with the scent of cinnamon and roast apple. He wondered if the taste would sink right into their skin.

In front of him, Sherlock stood bare-chested, his dark hair starting to curl wildly in the humid air. It made John's fingers twitch. God, he wanted to touch. He wanted to lick that chest to test his theory.

Belatedly, he remembered that he could, so he stepped closer and reached out, burying his hands in Sherlock's hair and sighing as the smooth curls seemed to wrap around his fingers. "I've wanted to do that for ages."

Sherlock hummed and leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed. John took it as confirmation that his touch was welcome. He untangled one hand from Sherlock's hair and let it trail down his neck, over his shoulder and across his chest. He paused when his fingers came across the small, puckered scar just below Sherlock's right pectoral muscle.

John took half a step back and looked down at his hand on Sherlock's chest, torn between awed disbelief that this was happening and second-hand guilt for the scar and all it represented. He swiped his thumb across it and felt Sherlock take a ragged breath.

"John..."

He lifted his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. Those iridescent eyes were boring into him, looking straight into his soul.

"It wasn't your fault," Sherlock murmured. "You do know that, right?"

John tried to smile. "I know. Doesn't mean I don't feel bad about it. If I hadn't insisted on marrying her, this wouldn't have happened."

"She might have killed both of us if you hadn't," Sherlock pointed out. "We will never know. Personally, I find what happened to be preferable."

"I'm still sorry it happened," John told him. "I don't think I've ever been so scared as I was when I found you on the floor and saw the blood. Well, until you flat-lined, that is."

"Sorry." Sherlock raised his hand, covering John's own and pressing it to his chest. "If it helps, I only pulled through because of you."

John shook his head. "I didn't do anything."

"You exist," Sherlock said. "I reminded myself that you needed me, that you were in danger. It was all the motivation I needed."

John stared at him in disbelief. He remembered that night clearly - a waking nightmare, forever etched into his memory. He recalled standing behind the glass, watching the doctor's give up on trying to reanimate Sherlock. It had felt as if his own heart was being cleaved in two and he had stayed there, unable to move. Even now, a full year later, he still didn't have the words to describe what seeing that heart rate monitor pick up again had been like.

"No one can just ... just restart their own heart, Sherlock."

"Why not? It's _my_ body. _My_ heart. Perhaps others merely lack proper control over their transport. But I made a vow to you. I needed to keep it."

John thought that to Sherlock, this was probably quite normal. After all, here was a man who shot the walls when he was bored, who had faked his own death and hunted killers for a living. Restarting his own heart probably didn't even rank high on the difficulty scale for him.

But to hear that Sherlock had done it  _for him_ ...

Tightening his grip on Sherlock's hair, he pulled him down for another kiss, wishing he could somehow put into words what it meant to him.

Sherlock went willingly, lips parting almost immediately, hands curving around John's hips.

This was another miracle, John thought. Sherlock wanting him, kissing him without question or hesitation, as if he had merely been waiting for John to catch up.

_'Nothing new there'_ John mused, smiling into the kiss and allowing his left hand to slide around Sherlock's torso and roam across his back.

Sherlock tensed at the same time as John registered what his fingers had found.

He pulled back. "What is that?"

But Sherlock wouldn't look at him. "Nothing."

"Sherlock..."

He sighed. "Can we please not talk about it? Not ... not now."

He finally did meet John's gaze and there was a plea in his eyes that John couldn't ignore. "All right."

Taking a step back, John turned to check the bathwater. "I think this is ready now."

He turned off the tabs and beckoned Sherlock over. "Come on, then. We'll get cold if we stay out here much longer."

"Cold _er_ , you mean," Sherlock muttered, but the attempt at humour couldn't quite hide his relief that John had agreed to let the topic drop.

"All the more reason to get in quickly," John said. "Wouldn't want to risk hypothermia."

He started peeling off his longjohns and the extra pairs of socks, trying hard not to look at Sherlock. Clearly there were things he wasn't meant to see yet. He would simply have to be the bigger man and let Sherlock look at him instead. It wasn't a hardship. He knew his body, knew the gym had improved his physique, but when it came down to it he was just average. Nothing special but half-hard already, thanks to the idea of himself and Sherlock in that hot tub.

He stripped off his pants as well and climbed in. If Sherlock wanted to have a closer look, he would just have to come and join him.

Sighing in relief as the warm water closed around his body, John reclined in the tub and closed his eyes, resting his head against the edge. "Care to join me?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I ... yes. Yes."

Fabric whispered against skin and John felt and heard the water slosh as Sherlock climbed into the tub with him. There was plenty of space for the two of them and John was gratified when he opened his eyes and found that Sherlock had chosen to sit almost directly next to him.

Sherlock moaned softly and let his head sink back. "God, that's good."

John grinned and tried not to let the moan get to him too much. "Hmm, I do have good ideas every now and then."

"This is one of them," Sherlock said and John watched him shiver as the deliciously warm water worked its magic.

"Can't let you have all the brilliant ideas," he said, smiling. "You might end up forgetting what you've got me for."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him but his expression was very serious when he replied. "I am well aware what you are to me, John."

It was as open and honest as John had ever heard him, and he knew a lot depended on his reaction.

"Do you know, I think I'm starting to understand that," he murmured, reaching out and grasping Sherlock's hand. "Though you've been doing your best to keep me in the dark."

Sherlock stared down at their linked fingers, one corner of his mouth turning up into a lopsided smile. "Can you blame me?"

John shook his head and squeezed his hand. "Not at all. I've hardly been an open book, either. Could've saved us both a lot of time, if things had been different."

"If things had been different, chances are I'd be dead for real," Sherlock replied softly. "We're alive. We're here. I'm sure between the two of us we can figure out the rest."

"Mmmh, I think we've managed the scary part already. Only one left, really."

Sherlock raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Oh?"

Heart hammering, John looked him straight in the eye and licked his lips. Silly to be nervous when he was so sure of what Sherlock's answer would be, and yet...

"Sherlock Holmes ... we've certainly had our ups and downs and I haven't always been as honest with you, or myself, as I should have been. But I'm yours, if you want me, for as long as you want me."

Sherlock stared at him, blinking rapidly, lips pressed tightly together. For a terrifying moment, John thought he was going to cry. Finally, he moved closer, raising his free hand out of the water to cup John's face. "Always, John." He swallowed and continued, voice rough. "You have to know ... you must know by now, that I do not consider life without you worth living. I want you with me, always, in whichever capacity you will allow."

John lifted Sherlock's other hand to his face as well, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. "Including this one?"

And there it was - the unbridled joy in Sherlock's eyes. " _Especially_ in this one."

So simple, then. After all these years, all the pain and confusion and fear, it was so easy.

Beyond words, John simply leaned in and kissed him again.

*****

Sherlock surged forward to meet him, sighing into John's mouth. His fingers trembled against John's face but he was reasonably sure that John didn't care, if he even noticed it at all.

To have John tell him he could have him as long as he wanted him, as if there was any possibility of Sherlock  _not_ wanting him ... it was beyond belief. And yet it had happened and he had managed to respond in kind and the world hadn't ended. Sherlock wasn't used to saying what he wanted and then getting it. It was so far outside his experience, he didn't quite know what to do with the bubbly sensation rising inside his chest.  _'Perhaps'_ he thought  _'this is happiness.'_

Then John's fingers got tangled in his hair again and pulled slightly and any higher thought flew right out of his head. A wanton noise filled the air and it took him an embarrassingly long moment to realise that it came from his own throat.

John, clearly catching on, pulled at his hair again, sending another flare of desire down this spine. He needed to be closer, needed more, and he shifted without thinking, climbing onto John's lap and reaching for him with both hands.

"Uh, god yes," John moaned, grasping at Sherlock's shoulder and pulling him even closer.

Water sloshed around them but Sherlock didn't care, not when he was precisely where he had always wanted to be. Groaning, he kissed John again, trying to somehow express it all through that.

He shifted his hips at the same time, trying to press closer, and John tore his mouth away to pant into his hair as their erections slid against each other.

"John," Sherlock murmured into his ear, voice shaking as he tried to parse the sensation of John's hard cock against his skin. "John..."

"God, Sherlock," John panted, pressing kisses to his throat. "Brilliant."

Sherlock felt the compliment to be a bit premature, seeing as he hadn't done much worth praising yet. That was easily sorted, though. He let his right hand drop into the water, teasingly brushing his fingers across John's chest before sliding lower and grasping both their cocks.

John moaned and dropped his head forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock's clavicle to watch the movement of his hand in the water.

Pleasure sparked through his entire body, his brain overtaken by unrestrained lust. In theory, he knew it was his own hand giving him pleasure, but the fact that the hand in question was also touching John at the same time added a heretofore unknown element to the endeavour.

"Like this?" he asked, lips brushing John's cheek. "Do you want to come like this?"

"Nnng," John said, not very helpfully. "God, yeah, let's. We can just ... later, we can ..."

He broke off but Sherlock didn't need anything more than that. He understood quite well. "Agreed."

The night was young. Best to get the edge off now and then build up to it again, slowly.

_'Maybe not quite as slowly as to this one'_ he thought wryly. _'I don't think I could do another five years of waiting for this.'_

John chose that moment to pull him back in for another series of kisses, panting against his lips in between. "You ... are... bloody ... brilliant."

Sherlock wished he could reply but speech was beyond him, his mind and body overtaken by desire. Later. There would be time for all the things he wanted to say and do later. They finally had nothing but time for each other - three days and nights in this very hotel room still ahead of them.

But for now ... he tightened his grip a little, swiped his thumb just so and enjoyed the way John thrust up against him with a half-aborted moan, the muscles in his arms flexing on the edge of the tub.

Dipping forward, Sherlock began nipping and biting at John's neck and jaw, humming as the stubbles of John's beard scraped against his cheek. It sent another delicious little shiver down his spine and he swiped his thumb again, pushing his weight down at the same time to keep John trapped in place, unable to thrust up against him and, for the moment, at Sherlock's mercy.

It turned out to be a rather short moment indeed, for a moment later John had wrapped his arms around him and unceremoniously picked him up. Before Sherlock quite knew what was happening, the room spun around him and a moment later he was sitting on the opposite side of the tub with John on top of him, grinning that dangerous smile of his that had been the precedent to bullets and fists flying. Sherlock suspected with no little thrill that he was in for quite another sort of retribution this time around.

Blunt fingers nudged his aside and Sherlock couldn't hold back a gasp as John's hand wrapped around him, picking up precisely where he had interrupted Sherlock and bringing the pace down to something achingly slow, until it seemed every last of Sherlock's nerve endings was focused on the precise location of John's hand alone and each minute shift sent waves of languid pleasure rippling through him.

Sherlock felt himself begin to tremble, hands flailing for something to hold on to before settling on John's shoulders and hanging on tight. "John..."

"Ready?" John asked and there it was again, that devil-may-care smile of his. It went straight to Sherlock's groin.

He groaned shakily in response and John's other hand found his balls, further proof that he was keeping Sherlock trapped with his body and sheer presence alone.

"Now," John murmured, thumb passing across the sensitive underside of Sherlock's glans just as the fingers of his other hand brushed against his perineum.

Sherlock felt his orgasm swipe through him one long wave of release and he was barely aware of John moaning and pulsing against him through the white noise that flooded his senses with overwhelming pleasure.

When he finally gathered enough cognitive function to open his eyes and take in his surroundings again, he was slumped in the tub with John's limp body on top of him, warm puffs of air against his neck and gentle tremors running through them both, making the water ripple around them.

He opened his mouth and took a ragged breath.

Grinning, John lifted his head and looked at him. "You all right?"

Instead of responding, Sherlock pulled him down into a rather sloppy kiss, wishing he could make it as fierce as the emotion running through him but lacking the energy just now. Luckily, John seemed to get the message anyway.

"Yeah," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Me too."

*****

John woke in a warm bed, soft sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains. He stretched and groaned softly as various muscle groups complained. He didn't mind. There wasn't a single ache he wouldn't mind feeling all over again if only he could get up the energy to wake Sherlock and repeat the entire thing.

After their bath, if one could dare call it that, they had relocated into the shower to actually get clean before falling into bed for a rather more drawn-out repeat performance. He was sure they had slept at some point because he remembered Sherlock drifting off in his arms and he  _definitely_ remembered Sherlock waking him at some point in the early morning. In fact, he was unlikely to ever forget it. There was something rather memorable about waking up to the sensation of Sherlock's lips around him and the soft moan vibrating in his throat.

John hummed at the memory and stretched again, indulging in the ache of strained muscles protesting any sort of movement. He turned his head and found Sherlock sound asleep next to him, lips slightly parted and his face half hidden by the pillow.

_'I love you'_ John thought. It didn't scare him at all.

He rolled onto his side, closer to Sherlock, and gently petted his hair, letting the curls snag at his fingers. Sherlock made a soft sound and nudged into the touch, so John repeated the gesture. Sherlock hummed a little and opened one bleary eye.

"Hey," John said, smiling softly. "I love you."

Sherlock blinked. John continued to smile. Sherlock blinked again, opened his mouth a little further as if to say something, then closed it again. There was something painfully vulnerable in his face. His expression shifted from half-asleep to stricken to something else entirely, something soft and achingly tender.

John watched and felt his own throat close up at this almost unprecedented display of emotion. "I love you," he repeated. "I just ... needed you to know."

Another series of rapid blinks and then a slow smile spread across Sherlock's face like a sunrise. "John..."

"Seems a bit silly not to say it until now," John said quietly. "I feel like it's been true for so long ..."

"I ... longer," Sherlock managed, his throat clicking as he swallowed. "I don't know about you but ... for me ... always, John, I ..."

He broke off, shaking his head as much as he could in his position. "I have ... loved you ... from the start."

There were so many things he didn't say and John felt each of them like a blow. He moved forward and reached out, grasping Sherlock's face in his hands and kissing him. "No more," he murmured. "I told you last night. No more pain. No more denying ourselves. It ends now. There's only going to be you and me against the rest of the world, just as you said. And everyone else can bugger off."

He held Sherlock's gaze, making sure his words registered. Sherlock nodded, that smile stealing across his face again. It was breathtaking.

"I'm keeping you," John told him seriously. "I'm keeping you until you ask me to let you go and you'd better have a damn good reason to ask me to leave because I will put up a fight."

Sherlock shook his head. "Idiot. If you think I could live without you, you clearly haven't been paying attention."

John smiled back at him. "Let's not put it to the test again, eh?"

"Agreed," Sherlock said. "Now kiss me again."

John did, pulling back just long enough to smile down at him. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> Stay tuned for Part 2 of my Sally Donovan series for the S3 fix-it we all need and for several new medium to large Johnlock pieces coming to an Archive near you soon.

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you not familiar with the Yule Goat, please google "Gävle Goat" and read the timeline in the Wikipedia article. It's very entertaining.


End file.
